


the best picture of 1945

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: 1946: The Doctor, Rose, and the Oscars. Bunched up stockings, Gene Kelly, and French champagne. | Written for/winner of Challenge 6 at then_theres_us on LJ many moons ago.





	the best picture of 1945

It was the shoes. Definitely the shoes.

Or maybe the way her skirt flounced as she walked. The way it twirled around her knees as she swung her hips.

Her hips. _Mmmm._

Here they were — at the 18th Annual Academy Awards — surrounded by the elite of Hollywood’s golden age, and the Doctor only had eyes for Rose Tyler’s legs. 

It _was_ the shoes. Those Cuban heels made her legs look at least 2,348.3 feet longer, and she _had_ to pick out the _red_ ones…

‘Course, the red ones matched the dress. The dark cherry dress with the plunging neckline and the tiny sleeves and the fabric gathered at the waist. It was the sort of dress Marilyn would wear whilst standing over a grate, and oh how his mind had already copy and pasted Rose into that infamous scene. 

“Blimey, is that _really_ Jimmy Stewart?” Rose turned around, her eyes wide, the mascara around her left a bit clumped. 

“Indeed it is,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t been staring intently at her backside just a second earlier. “He’s one of the co-hosts this year, with Bob Hope.”

“Bob Hope! God, Mum would _die_ to be here. You know, she’s got all the ‘Road’ movies memorized.”

“Is that so? Never would have pegged your mother as a fan.”

“Oh sure. She thinks Dorothy Lamour was one of the most glamorous ladies who ever lived. Oh! Is she here tonight?”

“In the crowd, perhaps. But she isn’t nominated for anything.”

“So tell me: are there any big upsets tonight? Any underdogs who win?”

“I dunno. Guess you’ll have to watch and see.” He grinned at her with raised eyebrows.

“Come on, Doctor!”

“Ah-ah! Spoilers! Really, Rose, I think you can last a couple hours. And anyway, can’t you focus on walking the red carpet? You’re walking the red carpet! _The_ red carpet! The Hollywood equivalent of the yellow brick road! There’s paparazzi and film crews and the crème de la crème of the cinema’s greatest stars! Humphrey Bogart! Cary Grant! Gene Kelly!” 

Rose looked over at the latter, smiling that fifty gigawatt smile at a row of flashing cameras and waving jauntily, his left arm around the waist of Kathryn Grayson.

“He sure is flash, huh?” Rose said admiringly. “Those tight trousers are something else.”

The Doctor cleared his throat loudly, tugged nervously at his ear, and turned her attention elsewhere. “And over there’s Ingrid Bergman. She’s nominated for Best Actress tonight.”

“She’s so beautiful I could cry,” Rose pouted. 

“Well, she’s pretty, I guess,” the Doctor drawled, casually looping his arm around Rose’s waist, spinning her toward a row of cameras and smiling widely into the blast of the flashbulbs. “But she’s hardly a stunner like you.”

“Doctor, you’re making me blush.”

“Matches your dress nicely.”

 

They were sitting at a table with Angela Lansbury and Billy Wilder. There was a bottle of $500 French champagne in a bucket. And Frank Sinatra had just apologized to her for bumping her chair.

Rose could barely believe it. She, Rose Tyler, was sitting at the Oscars.

And her stockings were bunched up in the back. She could _feel_ it, and it was driving her insane.

“I’m just going to nip to the loo,” she whispered in the Doctor’s ear as she slid out of her chair.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, just gotta straighten my stockings.”

As she stepped out of the darkness of the theatre and into the lobby, she couldn’t help but giggle. Just a couple of hours ago they’d been in the TARDIS arguing over what film to watch before bed, which had led to the Doctor suddenly inputting new coordinates and ordering her to find a dress suitable for the 1940s. And here they were. Knocking elbows with the Hollywood elite, back when the romantic scandals somehow maintained a veneer of sophistication and the men all wore hats. 

Rose had tried to convince the Doctor to wear a fedora, but he said it would only muss up his hair gel. She was never going to let him live _that one_ down.

“Need some help?”

She turned sharply. “Doctor, must you sneak up on me like that?”

“Sneak, what do you mean sneak? I simply walked up behind you. Wasn’t trying to take you by surprise.”

“Why _did_ you follow me out? I’m just running to the loo to fix my stockings.”

“They’re only doing the technical awards right now, and I thought you might like a bit of a look-see. Explore the Chinese Theatre while everyone’s busy, eh?” He twirled the sonic screwdriver in his fingers and grinned.

 

After running into several of the staff and various actors sneaking fags and/or snogs in an assortment of halls, they finally found an unoccupied dressing room. There was a full-length mirror, an Oriental screen, a dressing table covered in make-up, and a red velvet loveseat.

Rose twirled in front of the mirror, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Were you serious, back on the carpet, when you said Ingrid Bergman couldn’t pull off this dress?”

“Oh yes. She hasn’t got the skin tone for such a color, and her shoulders aren’t half as nice.” His tone was glib and casual, but his eyes had focused on her in a predatory way that made her insides turn to jelly. 

“You know who I’d like to pull off this dress?”

His right eyebrow lifted as his lips curved into a smile.

 

“So what won Best Picture?” she asked much later.

“Can’t remember,” he said into her hair, running a finger down her back, evoking a shiver. “I remember Billy Wilder won Best Director.”

“I dunno, you did some pretty good directing yourself,” she grinned. Funny how he didn’t want a hat to muss his gel but had no problem with her hands in his hair.

“Sorry we missed the rest of the awards.”

“I’m not. I _had_ to get out of those stockings.”

“Looks like we put a ladder in them.”

“Oh well. You can get me a new pair.”

“You don’t need stockings anyway.”

“Doctor knows best, hmm?”

“Shall we call it a night, then? Make our getaway before the prima donna returns to her dressing room?”

“Maybe we could grab that bottle of French champagne on our way out?”

“Allons-y, Rose Tyler.”


End file.
